


to be left on earth when another is gone

by squishyserpent



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mention of Character Death, big sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-13 22:17:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18949750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squishyserpent/pseuds/squishyserpent
Summary: Following Holmes’ assumed death, a grief-stricken Watson opens a box that Holmes had left to him in the event of his passing.





	to be left on earth when another is gone

**Author's Note:**

> okay, y’all. I have a serious need for sherlock holmes 3, and this is how I cope.

“Watson.”

John stopped leafing through the pages of his novel, which, admittedly, he had lost interest in, and glanced up at his companion. His soft and subdued tone caught his attention. It was completely unlike the excited, challenging tones to which he was accustomed. He sensed there was no problem to be solved or question to be debated this time.

The glint that normally filled Sherlock’s eyes was dimmed, and his maddening smile was replaced with a saddened one.

“Yes, Holmes?” John asked, placing his book down on the table beside his armchair.

“There’s no way to phrase this in a delicate manner, so I’ll put it bluntly.” Sherlock began, cautiously, tapping his fingers together to a silent, erratic beat.

John raised an eyebrow.

“Under the possibility of an untimely death, I...have a request.” Sherlock stated, his hollow tone concealing most of the emotion whirring inside his chest.

“Holmes, what are you implying? Is this because of Moriarty?” John asked, feeling himself rise from his armchair.

Sherlock waved his hand, a bit too quickly, as if brushing aside the situation. His hand gleamed in the light of the lamp behind his chair.

“Of course not. Please listen to my request.” Sherlock waited for John to lower himself onto his chair again, who was now unable to relax.

“I have a box, filled with possessions of mine that I have kept close to my person for years. Only following my death, may you take this box for your own use.” Sherlock folded his hands in his lap, scanning John for his reaction.

“Why?” John felt the word tumble out of his mouth, and he already expected the long-winded answer Sherlock would give him before he could finish.

“Why? Why what? Why give the box to you? Why mention this? That question has a thousand segues, my dear Watson. Please elaborate.” Sherlock replied, dragging out the last few words with effect.

John sighed, quite ruefully. It didn’t surprise him that Sherlock could determine what he would ask before it was asked, but it always did at the same time. He’d learned not to ask simple questions in the presence of such a complex man, but, this moment didn’t leave him much room for predetermined thoughts.

“Why leave the box to me, and why tell me about it now? Surely Moriarty has gotten you worried to some degree.” John explained, watching Sherlock’s eyes with curiosity.

“The matter of who I leave the box to shouldn’t be up for debate. You, besides that wretched nanny, and the dog, I suppose, are the only true companion I’ve ever known.” Sherlock said this in a softened tone, lacking the superficial manner he typically bore.

John, flabbergasted, simply nodded. He didn’t know how else to respond.

Sherlock never acknowledged the box again, and while their conversation drifted to more lighthearted subjects, such as the new experiment Sherlock was embarking on, the box never slipped John’s mind.

That, and the unsettling possibility that Sherlock would die.

~

  
John stared down at the box. It was much smaller than he imagined. He had imagined a large, hefty chest, covered haphazardly with locks and chains, bearing the secrets of his past. The only security the box had was a semi-tight knot of string.

It must have been lying amongst Sherlock’s other junk, silently waiting to be noticed. He had never thought about looking for it until this moment.

It had been almost a month since John had given his eulogy for Sherlock, and he still felt that he shouldn’t open this box. It wasn’t confirmed that Sherlock had died. He could have survived that plummet at the waterfall. They hadn’t found his body. It wasn’t that cold that night, John thought, recognizing yet accepting his denial. He could still be alive.

But, John knew he had to open the box. It was Sherlock’s one and only wish, with no will written and no known family, besides his brother.

John’s fingers trembled above the strings, and he untied it quickly, opening the box before he could have better judgement.

The box, faded and adorned in multiple stains, had nothing in it but small leaflets of paper. John could recognize the crazed, sloped handwriting. John held a piece of paper in his hand, scanning.

It was a letter.

John rummaged through all of the pieces of papers, all of them beginning with “Dear Watson,” on the first line. They were all letters, addressed to him.

John swallowed the emotions swelling his throat, and began to read the first letter he happened upon:

_Dear Watson,_

_This letter has no particular subject, and perhaps it’s foolish of me to write this in the first place, considering you may never read it. Nonetheless, I will let the pen drift across the page._

_I’ve been feeling myself grow with you. Each day, we fall into a routine, a nice routine, balancing work and relaxation. It’s odd, being in a routine. I’m not quite used to it._

_I’m used to living on my own, and even though we squabble, and have our differences in personality, methods, and overall selves, I cherish the time we spend together in this modest home. A home that you built for me._

_-SH_

Most letters were written in this matter, bringing John from his previous standing position to his knees, reading on the floor like a child. Some letters seemed random, speaking about nothing in particular, similar to the first letter. Each word tugged a tear from John until his eyes were completely blurred and his face soaked.

Among the letters there were scribbled paragraphs, reminiscing about fond memories from cases, recalling old jokes, and some, surprisingly, were dedicated solely to John’s eyes. These were the more recent ones. Sherlock had defined them as “pools of emotion, churning in swells of green, blue, and curious flecks of amber, apt to portray multiple emotions at any given moment”. Sherlock confessed in these letters how he felt himself “falling to a point of no return”, something John couldn’t quite grasp or understand.

It wasn’t until he reached the most recent letter, sitting patiently atop the stack, that he understood what Sherlock was trying to convey.

It read:

_Dear Watson,_

_In this letter, I must confess to something I’ve been dancing around in all of these letters. I never thought I’d be saying this, wholeheartedly, to anyone, but you’ve awoken a new change in me._

_It’s a dangerous thing to admit, considering our relationship on paper, and your engagement to Mary, but I’m through with avoiding things due to danger and reason. I may not get another chance to say this, or, write it, due to my current affiliation with Moriarty._

_I love you._

_-SH_

John felt something in him break as he reached the last line, his eyes staring at it until his eyes squinted, until he was forced to blink. He read it over and over, imagining Sherlock saying it to him. What tone of voice would he have had if he said it? What would he be doing? Would he have stopped to say it in between a puff of his pipe? Would he whisper it to him as he handed him a case file?

He would never know.

John flipped the paper open, his hands shaking with tremors, scouring it for any other words he could cling onto. John held the box, now empty. Nothing. These letters were all he had left.

“Damn you, Holmes.” John muttered, laying his head in his knees, crumpled to the ground as he sobbed.

John would never know when Sherlock planned to tell him, or if he did. There were so many things he would never know now.

John reread the letters again, the light outside the window dimming, drinking in every word and detail until he had a pounding headache.

John left the house, quickly leaving a wire for Mary, informing her he wouldn’t return to their home until the next day.  A work-related obligation, he had said.

When John re-entered the house, it was nighttime, the city falling to a hush as the moon hid behind the clouds and fog. John took off his shoes and coat, placing them by the door before heading up to Sherlock’s bedroom.

Sherlock normally had slept anywhere but the bed, choosing his chair, and even sometimes the floor. But sometimes he did sleep here, and John nestled under the blankets after closing the curtains. He inhaled deeply, longing for the earthy scent of Sherlock’s pipe and the constant, comforting hint of cinnamon he could detect from him.  

The blankets were cold. Any indication that Sherlock slept here was gone.

John stayed in the bed, long after morning light attempted to stab through the curtains. John clutched the blankets, his head deep within, refusing to face the world.

John closed his eyes, imagining Sherlock was listening, from wherever he was, and he let the words fall from him. The unfiltered, raw truth.

John laughed through his tears, knowing that there couldn’t have been more of an unfortunate time to come to this realization.

“I love you, too, Holmes.”

**Author's Note:**

> hope you all enjoyed! :;) the title is a quote from the song of achilles, by the way.


End file.
